Page 19 of Good Duke Gone Rogue

“So,” Reggie grinned. “What’s the moral of the story?”

“Don’t play with fire?”

“And if you do?”

“Have water nearby?”

“And?”

“And…” Jacob looked up innocently, and Reggie had a rush of pride for the boy.

“And the moral of the story should be, don’t play with fire,” he nudged him in the arm. When Jacob smiled up at him, he patted his shoulder.

All boys needed a father. He had a good father. One he could trust, admire, look up to, and ask for advice. Jacob had lost the only man in his life that was filling that role to any extent. It almost broke his heart how much Reggie could feel Jacob’s loss and lostness.

Perhaps that’s why the boy had sought out the portrait gallery, curious about a sense of belonging and family. Family was Reggie’s largest priority in life. Family came first. They were an obligation, but it was a privilege to have them as an obligation. Duty could make or break a person. He only hoped that he was making the best choices he could. This last summer had tested him. He would like to think he passed, but he knew that in some people’s mind he, no doubt, had failed. That was life though. A series of tests. Some were passed and some were failed. Regardless, then came the next test.

A throat cleared from the doorway, and all his musings ceased.

***

BERNADETTE HAD OVERHEARD MOST of the conversation between her son and Reggie. Her heart was hammering and her legs were like pudding. She was irate about something, but she couldn’t place it. Reggie was just giving some fatherly advice. Avuncular advice? Brotherly advice? No-familial-relationship advice. Why was he talking to her son? Why was she mad?

She didn’t want Reggie to build a bond with Jacob. If he did, the moment it was severed, Jacob would be the one that washurt. Jacob would be the one dealing with loss. Again. And she would have to be the one to comfort him and explain how life could take whatever it wanted, and a person had to choose to forge on with whatever they had.

Even though his father was old, they had had a good relationship. And it broke Bernadette in two knowing he would never have his father around. And it broke her in quarters to think that Reggie was a terrible fit to fill that role.

She huffed. She hadn’t even given it thought—much thought. Reggie was…ergh…she fumed. He was…irresponsible. Reckless. Careless. He was too young. And right now he was too blooming handsome for her to think straight.

“Jacob,” Bernadette called out. “Isn’t it time for you to go outside for a bit?”

“Yes, Mama,” he replied. And she thought she heard him explain to Reggie that Mama thinks it’s a good idea to spend some time outside at least once every day.

Reggie nodded saying, “Trust your mother.” When he said the last line, he looked up at her with a lopsided smile, “They’re always right.”

Now Bernadette was fuming with irrational frustration, emotionally and…otherwise.

She planted a kiss on Jacob’s cheek as he passed her and made his way outside.

And then she just stood there. Immoible in the doorway. She wanted to leave. She wanted to leave Reggie in peace. The previous night at the ball had overwhelmed her. She never knew such pleasure could exist. And with Reggie. Her heart was at odds with itself. It was heavy, weighing down to her toes, and then it was floating free and clear outside of her body. She couldn’t marry Reggie. It just wasn’t…expected. He was too young. He was irresponsible. Always spending his last dime. She needed security. Again. But this time better.

“Detta?” he tilted his head at her. “How are you this fine morning?”

“I’m f-ood.” Her words faltered. She had meant to sayfinebut her lips producedgood. “I’m fine,” she intoned more cross than intended.

“That’s…good.” He was teasing her, and she wanted to smile. Really, she did. But did the man only know how to have fun?

“Striking, aren’t I?” Reggie extended his arm to a painting of a younger version of himself. Her eyes scanned the picture and then rested on his current biceps. He had been quite a bit smaller than, just as Jacob had said.

Mid-stare, she studied his rock hard bicep. His pointer finger was moving in a slow arch from the painting to his face. As it stopped, he flexed his bicep. Her heart fluttered. A slow blush crept up her neck. He knew what she was thinking. He had to have known, and the blasted man was teasing her again.

But before she could think to leave, he interjected with a drawl, “Detta?” And it was like her name on his lips was a hook, and she was being reeled in. She took a slow step into the room and leaned against the nearest wall tucking her arms behind her back. This was close enough. She could still make a quick escape. Her hands were in fists and her jaw was clenched. Anything to hold onto.

His movements mirrored her pace as he walked over to her cautiously. “What are you thinking about, Detta?”

He was directly in front of her now, and that blooming index finger was tracing her fist. Which, in reaction, started to unclench.

How did he have this power over her? That her body would react to him regardless of what her mind was thinking.

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